


Shame

by legend_of_dovahkiin



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: AU, Complete, Fic, M/M, Oneshot, Passion, Phandom - Freeform, Phandom Games, Weird, challenge, idk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 16:16:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9243677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/legend_of_dovahkiin/pseuds/legend_of_dovahkiin
Summary: For Round 4 of the Phandom Games on Tumblr.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The topic was to write something about which you are passionate, so here you are

It was embarrassment which fueled Philip Michael Lester’s newfound passion. Red-hot flames of shame licking in the base on stomach, stoking the desire, the yearn, to make it right. It engulfed his brain; it ate at his very being, acidic bile rising in his throat at the mere thought of them. He enrolled in school again, merely shrugging at Dan’s arched eyebrow, his mouth pinched with worry. Phil softened the grimace by tenderly stroking his thumb along Dan’s lower lip, his eyes blazing, trying: just trust me. 

Dan let it drop. 

It was too hard to explain, really. How do you get someone to see just how much the world had failed? So he kept quiet. 

The classes were grueling; sure, he had a masters, but this? These classes hurt to take. It hurt to learn, to truly have to realize and accept the failure of humanity. So he kept his mouth shut, and the end of especially long days, he would curl up with Dan. His Dan. His face buried in his neck, lying on their couch in their lounge, inhaling deeply, trying to quell the burning of his stomach, hiding his face, and the rose of his cheeks, hot with sheer embarrassment. He was embarrassed to be human, and he could not yet fully divulge this with Dan. 

He knew Dan was worried, Phil’s updates on his channel slowly meandering to nothing, his Twitter falling silent for days, unanswered tweets meant to bait him. Phil caught the longing looks, the whispers of contact which told so much more than either wanted to admit, the twitch of fingers when Phil would leave for class. But he couldn't share; not yet at least. There was still so much to do. 

The days got longer, never seeming to fully end, his body being incinerated by the heat, the drive. He would talk with Dan about his days, his classes, sometimes bringing up the dark, depressing shadows of reality, trying to gage his boyfriend’s reactions when he broached the subjects of unsolved murders, mass piling of bodies left abandoned, decayed after years of neglect. What do you think we should do? Dan’s eyes would flash, Phil saw that much, but they would harden, and a shrug would be given in response.

Phil wasn't surprised, because, really, how many people thought about it? And even when you start to learn, and you start to look into it, what are you supposed to say? It is hard concept to think about, and while many were content to shrug, a hopeless plea that someone else fix it, Phil’s resolve was strong, an iron fist clenched around his heart and his brain, the fire scorching the metal until it was all Phil could feel. 

So he kept going. 

Even after the days when he would go home and cry, the failure of humanity too heavy that day. He would babble with Dan about the injustice, the guilt, and the pain. Oh god, the pain. All the while, Dan would hold him, not truly understanding, this wasn't his fight, and when Phil was ready, Phil would share, squeezing him as the tears flowed freely, his body occasionally shaking, the guilt reeking havoc on his frame. 

He would divulge bits and pieces with Dan, but he wasn't ready to share fully. He hadn't achieved anything yet.

It took years, the classes building, the work mounting, and the stress almost unbearable. Sometimes, Phil would stumble, the weight too much for even him. But he had worked so hard. He had given everything, and while he still had interactions with fans, it was mostly through Dan’s channels, his own, dusty from years of neglect, you could almost see the cobwebs on his Youtube screen. On the bad nights, the nights when the pain and the weight and the stress were too much, Dan had learned to just hold him. To let him hide, to bury himself in the shame. And he would whisper to Phil that it was worth it; he could do it. Regardless of whether or not he was fully sure of what the “it” was, Dan never doubted. 

It took years, but he was finally there. He graduated with his PhD, in forensic anthropology from the University of Tennessee. Dan held his hand, and when Phil was accepting his diploma, his eyes were crinkled with pride, the warm, brown orbs shining, unshed tears forming, his hand raised, a camera steadily recording everything, the blinking red of the recording light grounding Phil. 

He had done it. Almost, anyways. 

The digs were the hardest. There was no Dan to go home to, with whom to curl up and cry. To shed some of the pain. It was just Phil and piles of bodies. 

Dan learned the extent of Phil’s work from the nightly news. He had been with Phil long enough to know how he brushed off his achievements, acting as though the years of work and school had been nothing. He didn't want praise, nor recognition, not for himself at least. And it was the news which showed Dan, really showed, how taxing Phil’s work was. Of course he had considered what his now-husband did, but he respected Phil, and knew him well enough to not push because Phil was beyond stubborn and would pull back infinitely harder than you pushed. So he was patient. He waited through the tears, holding Phil as sobs racked his body. He was patient even when the blues of his eyes started cracking from the pressure, the strain of the world. He was patient for years, all the while curiosity gnawing through his bones, sinking itself into his muscles and nerves, never quite fed enough, never truly satiated. 

It was the nightly news which forced him to cry. “Dozens.” It ricocheted around his brain, echoing as though it had been yelled from the highest cliff. Phil had single-handedly identified dozens of human remains from a mass grave in Darfur. What do you think we should do? Of course. Phil, brilliant, beautiful, caring Phil took it upon himself to give them back the very essence of who they were. Tears of pride rolled down his cheeks, cold even if the heat of their room, the remote clutched to his sternum knuckles white from pressure, his chest swelling. The hours of babbling Phil finally made sense. The full weight of his tear-filled words crushing Dan. The stress and weight Phil put upon himself finally made sense. In Phil’s world there was no one who had been failed more than genocide victims. Phil spent years, years, learning of the horrors and atrocities committed upon entire villages, cities, races. He had to look at the pictures, read the journal articles which held nothing back, and Phil felt the embarrassment, the shame, for all humanity. And it finally made sense. Because of course, of course, he was right, even after the ultimate failure, these humans had been ignored, their bodies piled and sloppily buried, not a single care given to them, to their families. And no one blinked. No one bothered to learn about them, to do everything they could to assure we didn't look away again. Sure, politicians said, “never again.” But all it took was a keen eye and the openness to see, to really see, that it never stopped. Phil saw, he saw, and when he was torn apart by guilt, guilt we all should've felt, he didn't flinch. He saw a problem, and while he didn't have all the answers and all the words, he made a resolve to help even in the smallest of ways. 

And, boy, did he do something about it. He worked so hard to fix as much as he could, to give them back the most mundane of rights. And Dan could hardly believe that he was the one with whom Phil entrusted everything, this miracle of a man, had chosen him, and even though it was Dan, his Dan, Phil didn't tell him everything, because he didn't want the focus on him. He wanted the focus on them. He didn't want the recognition for someone finally taking responsibility, he wanted the victims to finally be seen, their names to be whispered along the streets, chasing each passerby finally getting their moment. 

Dan clutched his phone to his ear, his fingers had already typed his favorite sequence of numbers, tears were still flowing, and his chest was dizzy, breathing in time with the rings. A sleep-heavy ‘hello’ danced into his ears, the years of curiosity fed and full, his body overflowing with pride. He chuckled into the phone, “Phil, you amazing idiot, do you know lucky the world is to have you?”


End file.
